


The Thing You Love Most

by I_prefer_the_term_antihero



Series: Inktober Fics [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Horror, Inktober, Pirates, Short Story, Short original story, Siren, Sirens, inktober day 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26943151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_prefer_the_term_antihero/pseuds/I_prefer_the_term_antihero
Summary: Dad was singing again.As Mikael sat on the beach, rocks digging into his feet, salty air on his tongue, the wind cool around him, in the grey air he heard a faint song.This singing started around the time dad died.
Series: Inktober Fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908046
Kudos: 1





	The Thing You Love Most

Dad was singing again. 

As Mikael sat on the beach, rocks digging into his feet, salty air on his tongue, the wind cool around him, in the grey air he heard a faint song.

This singing started around the time dad died. 

But the saying goes that dead men tell no tales, and if that’s true they definitely don’t sing lullabies. 

Which could only mean one thing. 

Mom told him that couldn’t be true; that his dad was swallowed by the sea years ago, and such things could only be a product of his grief infected mind. Besides, haunting songs were only sung by girls, and other assorted monsters.

But he knew the girls in his village didn’t know that song, and the other monsters would have to break into his mind to dig out those lyrics. 

A lullaby. An old one, from when Mikael was small enough to stowaway in the barrels in the cargo hold. From when his dad used to tickle him and tell him stupid jokes, and say _I love you_. From when he’d put his too-big hat on Mikael’s head, and take him on adventures out past the horizon, where the birds sang of love, and the crew sang of home.

He missed the sea, the sky, and the songs.

Enough to drown in the missing. Enough that he would sit on the beach for hours and do nothing but listen and miss till the sun and sea kissed goodnight.

And the song said _I am lost_ , and the song said _Come to me_.

—(and he was only half sure those were the original lyrics)—

He urged the other sailors to listen too, to take him out where the sky meets the sea and the sailors speak of home, to rescue him.

They couldn’t hear a thing.

They said either he needed to see a doctor or a hunter, because either way it was a demon singing, and one needs an expert for this sort of thing.

When he brought mother out to listen, the salty wind pulled her hair from her eyes, and he remembered just how sad her face was. She told him she couldn’t hear it either, that he ought to come back inside. 

But he could hear the echoes of the song in her eyes.

Her gaze said _I’d stay forever if I could._

It took him a while to convince her to speak the truth:

She could hear it too. But she said she agreed with the sailors; there are a great many things out there to trick us, and our tortured minds are not exempt from the equation. That if he bathed in the notes too long his mind was liable to get a rash; unable to itch away the urge to listen, until the urge was to follow. 

He tried to understand, believe them. He was a good kid after all, with “his whole life ahead of him”. He ought not spend his days chasing daydreams and memories, and strange lullabies.

But when the nights were struck by lightning and grief, he started to lie.

It wasn’t a lie that he was going to the beach. It wasn’t a lie that he was going to fish. It wasn’t a lie that he was learning to sail. 

But he lied when he gave any reasons. 

It was a lie when he said he’d stopped hearing the song.

He learned to sail yes, but only so he could one day go out there and save him; his dad who was still alive, but stranded, and perhaps not entirely sane. 

—Why else would he decide to sing instead of shout? Surely the wind is not more prone up carry soft songs on its wings as it is shouts. 

People in the village spoke of magic in hushed tones, either out of fear or awe. They spoke of it as something rare and mysterious and dangerous. He decided the only explanation for why he could hear the notes and the sailors couldn’t, was something rare, and mysterious, and dangerous. Perhaps hearing the song made him special after all. Or perhaps it’s always magic that ties us to each other in the end.

The sky here liked to wear the color grey; the sea out there always stormy. So while the fish were plentiful nearby, one would have to pay the thunder’s toll for an adventure. 

For all too long he couldn’t sail alone past the cracked sky. So either he would need a chaperone, or more skill of his own. 

And since everyone was inclined to think he was possessed in more than just resolve, they were _dis_ inclined to give him a free ride anywhere. It’s bad luck to sail in a storm with a lunatic, after all. 

So he taught himself to sail, and, years later, standing on the beach on a moonlit evening, he was ready to rescue his lost father. 

The song said _Come to me._

And Mikael replied _I’m coming._

He licked his finger, and set off where the waves and wind were thin and no one would see him betraying their trust, their warnings. 

He sailed out past the village, past the beach, the cove, and the song grew louder by the second, as did the hope in his heart. 

As he approached the angry sky, the bridge-less toll, he thought of his mother. 

He imagined just how happy his mom would be when he brought his father home. How they’d be whole again after all these years of being only two thirds of thing. 

The wind was a whip here, the water starting with a spray, then a torrent, then it became walls that couldn’t quite settle in one place. 

The sea opened its maw, roars escaping from its foaming lips. 

—Just before he fell, he saw something, a glimpse. Land. A face, a face he hadn’t seen in far to long, and the song was crisp, and clear, and _right here_ —

Stomach flipping inside out, breath forced from his lungs, he was sinking, the black walls pushing in on him from all sides. 

And just after he fell, a hand reached in to the water, grabbing his shirt, pulling him up. 

After a good dose of coughing he found, though the storm hadn’t ended, it has passed from this place, and he was safe on land. After another dose, he turned to his rescuer—

“Dad?! Dad is that really you?!”

But it didn’t require asking, as this man—though older, and with a much bigger beard, and much more sorrowful eyes then he remembered—could not be anything but. 

“Mikael.” The voice was just as warm as he remembered it, if a little hoarser. 

Without thinking he wrapped his arms around him, and began to sob, blubbering about mom, and coming home, and being worried about him, and _I heard your song_.

And, as he pulled away, staring into the face of the man he loved and lost, and wanted nothing more than to bring home, that hope in his heart coming to a crescendo—

Altogether too quickly his dad had far too many, far too sharp teeth. His skin was too smooth, until it wasn’t skin, it was scales. And what moments ago could be no one else but his father, now couldn’t possibly be his father. 

“You liked my song?” The siren said, her voice like the sun on morning dew. “Why thank you. It did take you a while, I feared you weren’t listening. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The horror he felt must have shone on his paralyzed face, for she put a hand on his cheek, crooning, 

“You poor boy. Don’t worry. You’ll see your father soon enough.”

“No… _NO!_ ” He stood to begin running away, “That’s not possible!! It can’t have been you, it was my _dad_ , he’s still alive, he’s still—!!”

She swiped her tail beneath his feet, sending him to the ground. She rushed to him, pinning him to the ground, her face, her fangs, altogether too close to his, her smile a cold, wicked thing, her breath smelling of fish and human blood. 

“I only hope you’ll taste as good as he did.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the day 10 prompt "The Siren of the Storms" from [@stlyrica_art](https://www.instagram.com/stlyrica_art/)'s [Inktober list](https://www.instagram.com/p/CE5jNZhhdu7/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) on Instagram!
> 
> This was another no edit run--I wrote and posted this within the same day. Generally with this sort of thing I'd expand on the action, dialogue, and scenes, far more, but I have been wanting to challenge myself to write faster for a while, and so just intended it to be a little thing for the prompt.
> 
> I wanted to play with the traditional idea of a siren. As far as I know, in many tellings they disguise themselves as "The thing you love most"...or just something you're prone to be attracted to. Most often they make themselves look like a beautiful lady to sailors...The point is, the attraction they usually exploit in most tellings is romantic. I wanted to play with/twist that idea by having the siren pretend to be his dad, instead of a romantic interest. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this I'd really appreciate a comment!!
> 
> You can also [read this story on my new original-writings blog on tumblr](https://thepsycheofbrokenthings.tumblr.com/post/631649304855166976/the-thing-you-love-most-notes-this-is-an-original)!!


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